I looked at the laptop screen, my fingers resting on the keys.

I had to write.

I had to make him believe I was just working.

I opened the recipe editor and clicked on the draft.

Julian was watching the screen, but he did not know the exact proportions of my recipes.

He would not notice a subtle shift in the measurements.

But Marcus would.

I began to type, my eyes burning as I stared at the bright white screen.

I had to plant the seeds of my survival in the very instructions of the quiche.

I started with the baking temperature, changing the standard three hundred and fifty degrees to something else.

The camera dome clicked, adjusting its focus on my hands.

“What are you doing, Clara?” Julian’s voice boomed from the ceiling.

“What are you doing, Clara?” Julian’s voice boomed from the ceiling.

I kept my fingers steady on the keyboard.

I did not let my shoulders tense.

“Adjusting the bake,” I said, my voice flat and quiet.

“Three hundred and fifty degrees is too high for this altitude,” I lied.